Avenging Angel
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Sam goes missing, right before Dean's eyes. Sequel to my wing!fic Too Many Regrets, set many years into the future. Dean and Sam are both angels, hunting evil. Rated K , pretty tame, except for some violent imagery. One-shot.


Avenging Angel

_This is a sequel to my first Wing!fic "Too Many Regrets." It came to me Sunday morning. It's been a little while since I wrote the first one, so you might want to refresh your memory. _

_This follows the first story, but is many years after that one chronologically. _

_Essentially, all you have to know is that the boys are both angels, and still hunt evil._

_Thanks to geminigrl11 as always, who is a great beta that I don't deserve!_

_I own nothing, reviews craved, and YES, I know, I'm getting back to Fallen now. LOL!_

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**Avenging Angel**

_In the Two-Hundred-Forty-Third Year of Sam Winchester's Existence…_

Dean was climbing the proverbial walls. He had received no word from or about Sam in almost three weeks.

_Missing. Missing on __**my**__ watch_… Dean cursed himself. Sam had vanished before his very eyes, and he'd been powerless to stop it. An angel, _abducted_. Such a thing was unheard of, and rumor had it even the Big Guy was watching this one.

When word finally came, he donned his armor and his sword. While this was a little too personal for him to be objective, no one tried to stop Dean, not even Him. Which was a good thing, since while defying The Boss wasn't the smartest act one could perform, Dean was renowned for not taking no for an answer where Sam was concerned.

He beat his wings once and dove.

Someone was going to pay.

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Sam screamed, but no sound emerged. Nothing could penetrate the inky blackness that encased him, grew tighter the more he struggled. The only sound was the chanting, and the sick laughter of his captor.

He had no idea where he was or how long he'd been here, trapped, feeling as if he were smothered in hot tar.

Again Sam tried to spread his wings, to force his way out. He had to escape now, before the demon returned. It made him do things, horrible things. He couldn't fight it with his body or his mind. His efforts to escape met with searing pain, as the black magic clawed at his soul and bent his will.

The chanting he heard was restraining him somehow, and it stripped his mental barriers away, allowing the demon to enter his mind unhindered. When the demon entered his mind, he had no choice but to dole out death and suffering as only an angel could. A hunter here, an acolyte it was displeased with there. Lives sacrificed at its whim.

"Sam…."

Too late. His captor emerged from the darkness that crushed him, caressing his face like some sick perversion of a lover. He involuntarily thought of Sarah, his beloved wife, of Jessica, and wept in frustration. _No, I won't_--

"Brother Adam has lost his way, rejected us. I want you to show him how unfortunate his decision was. Kill him. I want him to suffer."

_Not again. Please. Please stop this…. Dean? Dean help me, please_….

"Go, Sam," it whispered, showing no sign of remorse for using him like this. Like a killing machine. The chanting rose in volume, joined by its murmured Latin incantations, compelling him to go against everything he was.

Sam, his prayers for deliverance unanswered and his resistance crushed, spread his wings and embarked on the dark task.

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Sam, unlike Dean and John, had been buried, not cremated.

It had been his wish—like Sarah's before him—to let body become ash. They knew too much to let themselves just be left in the ground, whole and corruptible. But their oldest son, Robert, was a skeptic, and refused to indulge in his father's and late uncle's "nonsense" about the salting and cremating of remains.

Instead, Sam had been buried in a very tasteful and expensive casket on the Blake family plot in upstate New York, with a brass marker worthy of a lawyer's father. Robert had loved him deeply, despite his disdain for the "family business," and had even arranged for his mother's urn to be placed at his father's side.

None of which had been a problem. The enemies the Winchesters had made in life didn't know enough to track down Sam's resting place, and even if they found out, all of them knew better than to disturb that which was already dead.

At least, their _human_ enemies knew better.

Which made it all the more troubling when Sam's remains were violated, some 163 years after his death.

Dean had immediately investigated, with Sam at his side, only to find the once-ornate casket ripped open and the skull missing from the skeleton. His quip about the new legend of the Headless Geek had barely left his tongue when Sam cried out and disappeared in a cloud of black smoke and fire.

That had been three weeks earlier. Now, Dean stood before a nondescript one-level house. The occupant was Jason Ogden, reported to be a cultist, a misguided follower of some obscure lower demon which hadn't been identified. Yet.

Dean struggled to contain his anger. Sam's presence had been traced to this area, and this foolish twenty-year old man was the only lead he had on his brother's location. That was enough to reel in Dean's ire. He needed the man--boy, really--alive.

That didn't stop him from melodramatically blowing the front door off its hinges. There was something to be said for flare.

He stalked inside, sword drawn, and found the stunned human occupant cowering behind a padded recliner. With a flick of Dean's hand, the chair went flying, smashing an expensive-looking holographic entertainment set into bits. It was fine by Dean; there hadn't been anything good on in a century.

Another gesture and the man was shoved into the wall, whimpering pathetically. Dean advanced until the tip of his sword was pressed threateningly against the man's throat. He leaned in close, eye to eye with the petrified cultist.

"You and your friends have something that doesn't belong to you."

Jason shrunk back, but shook his head. "I-- I don't know what you're t-talking about…."

"_Where is my brother?_" Dean roared, the unspoken command in his voice forcing Jason to his knees. The cultist shook like a leaf, trapped by Dean's glare. Intimidation was a very useful weapon, one which he could wield with his eyes as well as his voice.

The fifteen foot wingspan helped, too.

"We-- We didn't want to! She told us that using the remains would make us powerful, respected…."

"Then you're a moron," Dean replied coldly. "Demons don't share power, they hoard it. Do you have any idea what Sam is capable of? How dangerous that power could be in a demon's hands?"

"Our priestess demanded it! I thought it was--"

"I'm not interested in what you thought. I'm interested in what you know."

Jason looked to be on the verge of a coronary. "I can't! She'll kill me if I--"

"_I'll_ kill you, if you don't tell me what I want to know!" Dean rumbled, pressing the sword a little deeper into the boy's skin, though not enough to draw blood. It was a bluff, of course. He wasn't allowed to kill out of anger or vengeance, only self-defense. Unless it was a demon, then he was not obligated by such restrictions.

Jason didn't know that, though. Dean watched the conflict unfold in the youth's eyes, and was pleased when the right decision was reached. Jason told him everything about the underground labyrinth, the tyrannical high priestess, and the deluded acolytes who sought greatness by worshipping a powerful demon. And Dean saw in his heart that the boy was telling the truth--that he had been forced into these activities by his so-called friends and his crazed father, and tried to resist the cult's wishes.

"Do yourself a favor, kid," Dean said, lowering the sword and retracting his wings. "Renounce them. You'll live longer."

He turned on his heel and left the house, silently hoping Jason would take his advice. He didn't want to have to come back here.

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Sam withdrew into himself, away from the taunts of his demonic captor and the memory of what she'd forced him to do. The blackness enveloped him once more, drowning his efforts to escape. His spirit was growing weaker, his strength diminishing rapidly under her control. Withdrawing into his thoughts and analyzing his situation seemed the best alternative, before the chanting and incantations buried him in darkness again.

It was getting harder and harder to come back to himself after each of his murderous excursions, and he was certain that meant that his soul was being damaged by the demon's spells. Soon, Sam feared that little would be left.

He was all-too aware that it was possible to control such creatures as reapers with the darker magics, had seen that up close, but Sam had had no idea that the same was possible with angels. The demon holding him must have dug up some serious Old World witchcraft to accomplish this.

What he couldn't fathom was _why_. He wasn't being allowed to focus his mind enough to recognize this demon, which probably meant it knew about him and his power, and was blocking him out.

Sam had been a psychic in mortal life, and it had surprised him that the power followed him into his new life, as well. It gave him unique insights, the ability to foretell the future--though he'd obviously missed something here.

Among his peers, Sam was known for his empathy, and his compassion. He hunted as well as Dean, was just as feared by the dark ones as his more aggressive brother, but Sam preferred gentility to ferocity. His attention was on helping the victims, rather than destroying the bad guys. Dean was the warrior.

He felt the blackness closing in again, smothering his personality and his conscience. The demon was close again, whispering its hateful invocations once more. Sam's strength drained away, leaving him blind and powerless.

He knew he was dying. Funny, it wasn't nearly as frightening the third time.

As his own light faded, he suddenly sensed a new one, just before the demon's iron grip reasserted itself and he felt the inevitable push to do its bidding once more. Then, for the first time in what seemed like years, a voice other than the demon's cut through the inky webbing that encased him.

"LET HIM GO!"

_Dean?_

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The underground temple was right out of a classic horror movie. Brown, stone walls, torches, a few round windows near the ceiling at ground level, a black wooden altar, complete with bowls of blood and demonic iconography. The missing skull acted as a centerpiece.

The priestess, her two chief priests, and the fifty or so weak-minded acolytes even dressed in blood-red hooded robes. Normally, he'd cheekily applaud their attention to artistic detail. But, it was the figure in the stone chair that drew Dean's attention.

An angel, his normally resplendent white wings curled behind him and covered with greasy black ooze, sat near the altar. His skin was also covered in the black substance, and his eyes were sealed shut by it. Blood splattered his body.

It was grotesque.

It was Sam.

Dean was enraged. His brother had been enslaved by these bastards. Drawing his sword, he marched through the stone entryway.

He announced his presence by swinging his sword in the direction of the altar. It exploded in a shower of wood and blood, Sam's skull crashing to the ground. The accompanying thunderclap startled the hapless human acolytes out of whatever chant they were performing, and knocked the ones in the front rows to the floor.

"Let him go!" Dean shouted, advancing. He could see that the priests and their head priestess were possessed humans, but the bodies were long dead. The demons were all that remained inside. Dean had no compunction about his next action.

The two priests charged him, two daevas that were probably used to terrorize the human cultists following in their wake. Dean struck both demons down with one stroke. Another obliterated one daeva, the other scampering away like the frightened dog it was.

Dean kept going, marching toward the high priestess. To his surprise, he realized that he recognized her, had faced her nearly a dozen times before, in fact. He hadn't thought it possible to grow any angrier, but he did.

Four of the acolytes foolishly rose from their knees and drew weapons. These were obviously the most brainwashed of the lot. He noted Jason's father among them, he recognized the face from a photo on the terrified boy's mantel.

He raised one arm, slamming the four men and women into a wall hard enough to render them unconscious as their blades and axes clattered uselessly to the ground. He left them pinned to the wall as he moved.

"Don't look at him!" The priestess called out to the other worshippers with a note of panic in her voice. Her warning came too late.

Whatever they'd had in mind when they came here this evening, an incensed angel in their midst wasn't part of it. The ones that weren't struck blind by his fury fled like stampeding cattle, leaving the room through any exit they could find.

Dean reached the elevated platform in the front of the room, now face to face with his quarry. She pulled back her hood, revealing what had once been an attractive female face, now rotting with jet black eyes. He doubted her acolytes had ever seen her without the hood.

"Release him!"

The panic in her voice from a moment earlier had disappeared as she threw her head back and laughed. The ghastly croaking of the dead woman's vocal chords sickened Dean. She raised a hand and sent a bolt of energy at him, which glanced harmlessly off his armored chest plate.

"You've hurt him for the last time," he warned, moving closer with his weapon raised.

"I don't think so," she wheezed maniacally. "Sam…kill your brother!"

Dean was unprepared for what happened next. Sam burst to life, his black eyes turning toward Dean as he lunged off the stone chair. He barely had time to pull the sword away before Sam crashed into him, sending them both sprawling.

Sam fought like a rabid animal, trying to grab the sword and tear the armor from Dean's body at the same time. Dean held him off, barely, but dared not fight back for fear of harming him. Thankfully, he could see that Sam was holding back as well, not moving as swiftly or as powerfully as Dean knew he was able.

His brother was still in there, somewhere, trying to resist the demon's control.

Thinking quickly, Dean turned his sword and rammed the hilt into the side of Sam's head, knocking him over and onto the floor. He moved fast, rising and leaping forward, weapon outstretched.

He caught the demon in the stomach, just as she was scrambling to flee the body she inhabited. The sword ran her through, impaling her against the wall. She cried out in pain, the holy blade both wounding her and trapping her there.

"Say hello to your father--" he growled, twisting the sword, and delivering the killing blow. "--Meg."

She was dead before the dead woman's body slid to the floor.

Dean had no time to savor his victory, though, as a low, primal growl from behind drew his attention. Sam was struggling to rise to his feet, oily wings flapping as he pinned Dean with a glare. Dean had to work fast.

He reached down and grabbed the skull from the ruined altar, scraping at the small symbols that had been painted on with blood. As the last of the circular emblems was broken, he heard Sam scream.

When he turned back, Sam was convulsing on the floor, the black grease and ash burning off of him as he writhed helplessly. Moments later, the last of the demonic residue was gone, leaving Sam gasping, eyes searching.

Dean was at his side instantly. "Hey, hey, I'm here little brother. You're safe now."

"Dean?" Sam breathed, eyes darting around. "Wha--"

Scooping Sam up and resting his chin on his shoulder, Dean smiled giddily. "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

His brother was limp in his arms, head sagging. Dean wrapped his massive wings around and under Sam, supporting the weight as he pulled back and laid his hands on the waxy skin of Sam's face and chest. He gave Sam some of his energy, trying to bolster the ebbing life force.

Sam was still fading. The demonic influence was nearly completely washed away, but had damaged Sam severely. Dean called out for the healer he'd summoned after leaving Jason's house. Azarias was waiting just outside.

"Don't you leave me, Sam. I'm not hunting with anyone else," he whispered, comforted slightly when he felt Sam's fingers tighten around his biceps.

"Didn' wan…hurt you…."

"You didn't. You didn't, Sammy," Dean replied softly. He could see the pain in Sam's face, as if merely staying conscious was agonizing. Dean slid his hand over Sam's eyes, bidding him to sleep. Better that he conserve his strength.

He had no idea how long they stayed that way, before he felt Azarias'hands on his shoulders and heard the stern but understanding voice of the old healer.

"Dean, stand aside. Please."

Dean complied, reluctantly. Handing the care of his little brother to someone else was something that never got any easier. He forced himself to stay out of the way while Azariasworked.

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Dean placed the skull back with the remains, and set them ablaze. He briefly mused on the fact that he no longer needed matches for this activity. It was more than a little odd burning your little brother's bones, but he chastised himself that they should have done this long ago.

_This might never have happened_….

He turned and faced his unusually quiet sibling, who was staring sullenly at the pyre. Sam had said barely a word for days.

"Are you all right?"

Sam blinked, his eyes flicking to meet his brother's. "I think so. I'm feeling better. Are you?"

Dean smiled, amused. "Fine, thanks to you."

A confused look crossed Sam's face. "What?"

"Seriously," Dean shrugged. "If you hadn't held back, it would have been a lot worse. I saw how strong her grip was on you. I'm impressed you were able to fight it."

"Not hard enough," Sam murmured morosely. "Four people are dead."

"I think you more than made up for that," Dean intoned seriously, turning back to watch the flames dying out.

One of the first things Sam had done when his strength had returned enough was to help Azariastreat the acolytes who'd been injured and blinded during the fight. He even helped the four leaders, Jason's father among them, to see the error of their ways and put their lives back together. Dean grinned to himself. _My brother, the healer_.

"Physician, heal thyself," Dean said quietly.

Sam glanced over at that, his face loosing some of the worry lines. "How come the only book you ever memorized was the Bible?"

Dean shot him a suggestive look. "That's not the only book. Maybe the only one without pictures. And remember, I did memorize the Kama Su--"

"Stop!" Sam cut him off, his face frowning in disapproval. Dean, though, saw the barest hint of a smile peeking through, and knew his irreverent humor had hit the mark.

When the fire burned out, Dean scooped the ashes up and reverently added them to Sarah's urn, before placing it back in the grave where it belonged. That task completed, he held out his hand. Sam was still weak from his ordeal, and needed a little help despite his mulish protests to the contrary.

"Come on, Sammy. The others have been worried sick."

END


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